“Fine.” She forced a smile. “I’m fine. Let’s look at these records.”
She bent her head over the manifests, pretending to search for patterns in the ship movements, while inside her chest two truths warred with each other.
She loved Njkall. She was certain of that now, certain enough that the word no longer terrified her.
But love and forever were not the same thing. And somewhere deep inside her, forever still sounded too much likeno way out.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The knife slipped, and Njkall watched a bead of dark blood well up along his thumb before he registered the sting. He set the blade down on the worktable and stared at the half-carved bone handle he’d been shaping. He’d carved a thousand of these—simple grips for hunting tools, the work so familiar he could do it in his sleep. He didn’t cut himself. Not in twenty years.
But he’d been distracted. Polly had returned from the healer’s cave an hour ago. And something was wrong.
He pressed his thumb against his mouth to stop the bleeding and turned to look at her.
She sat across the room by the fire, a half-finished string of beads forgotten in her lap, her eyes fixed on the flames. She’d been like that since she came in—quiet, distant, tucked into herself in a way he hadn’t seen for months. This wasn’t the easy silence they’d grown comfortable with, the kind that needed no filling. This was the old silence. The one that had walls in it.
His stomach tightened.
Last night she’d reached for him. She’d wanted him, openly and without fear, and he’d allowed himself more than he’d ever dared hope. This morning she’d been happy. Then she’d gone to see Tess. And now she could barely look at him.
He forced himself not to decide what that meant. That, at least, was a lesson he’d learned. Instead, he crossed the room and lowered himself onto the furs beside her, leaving enough space between them that she could close it if she wanted. Or not.
“You’ve been quiet,” he said.
Her hands tightened on the beads. “I’m tired.”
“You and Tess have been working hard, and making a lot of progress.” He kept his voice low and even. “I’m proud of you.”
“You’re always proud of me.” There was an edge to the words he didn’t understand. “Whether I do anything or not.”
He let that pass, knowing it wasn’t the real issue.
“Polly, if last night was too much?—”
“It wasn’t.”
The answer came quickly enough to stop him, and he nodded, breathing a silent sigh of relief.
“All right.”
She glanced at him, almost suspiciously, as though she’d expected him to continue.
He didn’t. He had spent a year trying to read every tremor in her voice and every flicker in her eyes before she had to name what she needed. Sometimes that had helped her. Sometimes,he now knew, it had prevented her from discovering the answer for herself.
So he waited, the silence stretching out between them until she finally sighed and dropped the beads into her lap.
“You’re very annoying when you’re trying to be good.”
One corner of his mouth twitched. “I’ve been told I’m annoying when I’m not trying.”
“That’s also true.”
Some of the tension eased out of his shoulders. Not much. But enough.
“I don’t know what you need from me right now,” he said quietly.
The words felt strange in his mouth. He was accustomed to knowing what people needed. It was part of leadership. Part of surviving. You read the weather before the storm arrived, spotted the weak stone before someone put weight on it, noticed the clan member who was hungry before pride made them ask. But he’d spent the last year trying to learn what she needed, and now everything was different.
